


Drabble Sanctuary

by CAPSING



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I will post my Spideypool drabbles, each with its own warnings and rating.<br/>Drabble #1 - Deadpool tries to bring the elusive Hanukkah-Spirit to a killjoy Spider-Man.<br/>Drabble #2 - Someone keeps breaking into Peter's apartment. Peter is too tired to care.<br/>Drabble #3 - Please forgive me for whatever I do – when I don't remember you.<br/>Drabble #4 - There's just no pleasing some people. Mostly Jews.<br/>Drabble #5 - black and yellow black and yellow black and yellow black and yellow.<br/>Drabble #6 - Trust him only as far as you can throw him (taken literally.)<br/>Drabble #7 - The Obligatory Pokemon AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool tries to bring the elusive Hanukkah-Spirit to a killjoy Spider-Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #1 - G, No Warnings.  
> Featuring: Jewish Peter.

The box in his hands feels suspiciously light. He surreptitiously brushes the tips of his fingers against the bright red warping paper, and checks them out of the corner of his eyes, trying to spot traces of powder or any accidental residue of a dangerous chemical; instead, all he sees are gleeful snowmen warped in fuzzy red scarves.

 

“Well, open it!”

Peter looks up at Deadpool’s mask, attempting to judge if this particular pattern of wrinkles upon it marked ‘I’m-Trying-To-Murder-Spider-Man-By-Taking-After-Jokey-Smurf’s-Methodology’.

He glances down. Deadpool is bouncing on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, hands clasped behind his back as if trying to contain himself.

 

“I didn’t get you anything.” Peter tries to stall, shaking the box every-so-slightly; his Spider-Sense remains dormant.

 Deadpool stills so abruptly Peter has to force himself not to leap backwards.

“That’s – that’s fine.” His voice sounds weird before he clears his throat, restarting his vocal chords to their usual scrappy qualities.  
“The real gift I’m supposed to get from this is a sentimental bullshit thing, y’know?”

 

Something in his voice makes Peter feel slightly guilty; after all, just because Deadpool is a bloodthirsty mercenary - doesn't necessarily mean he’s after Peter’s radioactive blood.

 

“Thanks,” he says, before turning the box and carefully peeling the sellotape from the paper.

“Figures you’d be one of those,” Deadpool snorts, making Peter chuckle as he pulls the gift free.

He takes a moment to look at it.

“Thanks?” Peter says again, but it comes out more like a question. “I mean– that’s very nice, Deadpool, thank you.”

  
Deadpool frowns.

“You don’t like it.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Peter replies honestly. “It’s just that it seems… kind of… random?”

  
If anything, Deadpool seems even more affronted.

“Spidey, you’re Jewish, right?”

“Yeah?” Peter hopes he doesn’t sound too surprised. “How did you– “

“And you Hanukkah and all that jazz?” Deadpool cuts him off; it’s the first time Peter ever held a conversation with him in which Deadpool kept his focus on one subject for longer than fifteen seconds.

“Hanukkah isn’t a verb.”

“Spidey.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Peter shrugs, confused. “What’s that got to do with –“

“So dreidels, aren’t those still a tradition thing? Has Google failed me? Is there no one I can trust, anymore?”

“It’s still a thing, but –“

“But?”

“Wade, it’s really thoughtful, it’s just –“

“It’s just?!”

 

“Wade,” Peter raises the box, pointing at the object behind the sheer plastic.

 

“That’s a beyblade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays Everyone! +｡.｡+ﾟ’ﾟ+｡.｡+ﾟ☆


	2. Taskmaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone keeps breaking into Peter's apartment. Peter is too tired to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #2 - G, No Warnings.  
> Featuring: Fluff.

Someone has been to Peter's apartment.

More specifically, someone has been to Peter's apartment several times over the last month. Uninvited.

Nothing was stolen, the locks and windows weren't broken – but Peter knows it, for sure.

Because his kitchen sink is spotless.

Peter doesn't even know where he keeps the dishwashing soap. In fact, he can't remember the last time he picked one at the Supermarket.

Yet any dirty dish he leaves after any of his sparse meals seems to somehow know how to bath itself and roll back into its proper place.

 

Peter is too tired to deal with this.

He hasn't gotten over four hours of sleep at night for the past two weeks, his rent is due, his paycheck is late and he has three papers to write about the history of photography. With a malfunctioning spacebar.  

When he opens the cupboard, he sees he ran out of coffee, too.

  
So he lets this carry on.

*

 

A month after, Peter crashes on his bed, worn and bleeding.

A day after that, he crawls under the covers and notices someone changed the sheets.

 

*

 

"Are you taking care of yourself?" his aunt asks him.

It's a Wednesday. Peter has been running solely on caffeine and willpower for the last forty-five hours.

"I'm fine, Aunt May," he lies when he drags himself to the fridge.

The stitches in his thigh pull; he covers the speaker with a bruised palm as he hisses in pain.

 

"I know you are, Peter," her voice carries around the empty kitchen, "but I'm worried about you. You always sound tired, nowadays. Is this Jameson making you run around the city again? I would have words with –"

"No!" Peter cuts in, then suppresses a sigh.

"Sorry." He mumbles. "But really, Aunt May. It's just – the road on my block is undergoing maintenance at really odd hours, and the noise woke me up couple of times." He clears his throat. "But they're almost done."

There's a pause. It's short, yet long enough to make Peter's guilt quadruple itself.

 

"I understand," Aunt May replies softly, and Peter wishes it was true.

"Would you at least go eat something? For an old worrywart?"

 

Peter pulls the fridge's door open and swallows.

On the top shelf there's lasagna.

On the bottom shelf there's steamed broccoli and a fresh green salad. Beneath the plastic wrap, seven corn seeds assemble a face which grins up at Peter.

"I will, Aunt May."

 

(It's all delicious.)

*

 

It's early evening when Peter wakes from his nap to a yelp and the sound of metal smashing against the floor. His heart pounds as he gets to the kitchen–

 

– to find Deadpool sucking on his index finger, looking at him like he suddenly grew four more arms and crawled up onto the ceiling.

 

"You're supposed to be in class," Deadpool accuses.

Peter shuffles forward to wrap himself around Deadpool.

It's hard, since he's smaller, so he uses his legs as well.

Deadpool smells just like Peter's fresh laundry has smelled during the last three months.

 

"Make me dinner." Peter mutters into his shoulder.

"You come into my house, you –"

Peter squeezes the man lightly to shut him up and closes his eyes.

"I want a Smiley-Toast."

Heavy arms settle lightly on Peter's back.

"That can be arranged."

 

*

 

That night, Peter does the dishes.

 

The following morning, Wade changes the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to picture Wade finding real joy in tending to Peter, knowing he's needed.
> 
>  
> 
> I know there's probably couple of grammar mistakes in this; if you noticed any, you're welcome to point them out :)


	3. Marceline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for whatever I do – when I don't remember you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #3 - T ; Warnings: Depressing, Vagueness, Mental Health Issues, Sad Ending.  
> Featuring: Angst.
> 
> I wrote this after listening [to this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dt5y5TA--c). For an hour.

Brown is a nice colour.

Most people don’t think much of it, but brown can be chocolate or a tree bark or a baby seal (not the ones they club to death), and it’s the hair colour of the guy who visits from time to time.

He brings brownies and weird spicy bread-rolls that only close half-way but taste great. He speaks about people who have names and what they said and what they did and he always says the word _better_ , keeps repeating it over and over like a compulsion. ( ~~Like a prayer~~ ).

There’s even an _it_ he promises will get better.

Deadpool chews.

When the guy doesn’t visit, Deadpool doesn’t get to chew his food.

That makes the current _it_ good enough for him.

 

Sometimes the guy cries, and hugs him close, murmuring about waves or wades? He apologises over and over and keeps talking about faults. Deadpool leans against him and feels the gentle thud against the fabric as the droplets slide off.

(He never gets this part. But it’s nice and it's warm.)

(It feels like – like something –)

 

(The guy leaves.)

 

(His head hurts.)

 

 

Black isn’t a nice colour.

His nose scratches so badly and he would kill for a chance to scratch it.

 

 

Deadpool frowns into the darkness and can’t quite gather why he keeps thinking about a Wendy.


	4. Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's just no pleasing some people. Mostly Jews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #4 - T; Warnings: Slight gore, reference to Cannibalism, Disturbing themes.   
> Featuring: Jewish Peter.

Peter doesn’t shriek like a little girl.

Peter shrieks like a man who just unwrapped an innocent looking gift to discover dozen of severed human ears inside.

The appendages scatter on the floor as the box drops from his hands.

There’s a frustrated sigh.

“ _Now_ how are you supposed to eat them? You got them all dirty! After I washed them all nice for you –”

Peter just gapes behind his mask as Deadpool bends to pick the ears up and place them back in the box, muttering about rules and seconds and unicorns before looking up to glare at Peter.

“Eat them?! What made you think I’d eat _human ears_?!” Peter manages to reply through his rapidly-growing nausea.

“Considering the Christian kids blood in your Matzot, it didn’t sound too far-fetched –“

“What are you even –“

“– First the dreidel-nitpicking, now this! I'm really trying here, Spidey. I went through all this trouble with Yellow Pages and next thing I know you’d tell me _Oznei Haman_ are not _actual ears -_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Purim Everyone! :)  
> *  
> 'Oznei Haman' means 'Haman's ears'. [They don't look anything like ears. ](https://katiedz.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/oznei-haman.jpg)  
> I wanted to write a different thing for Purim but it got longer than I planned and somehow made me create a new character so have this instead.


	5. Buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At this point I might as well rename this collection "Jewish Peter Drabbles and Friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #5 - G, no warnings.  
> Featuring - Jewish Peter, B-rated puns.  
> 

Around three percent of the human population upon planet earth are allergic to bee stings, to varying degrees; from a puffy throat and leaky eyes to respiratory failure and heart arrest.

"Un-bee-lievable!"

 Around ninety-two percent of said humans are prone to die from getting a stinger in the gut from a bee the size of a rhinoceros.  

"They're bee-coming a menace!"

Around ninety-nine percent of the general population, humans and otherwise, find Deadpool annoying.

 

(Peter hates statistics.)

 

"Spidey, bee-hold!" Deadpool cheers as he eviscerates his thirteenth bee-monster with a precise jerk of his wrist.   

"Kind of busy, buddy –" Spider-Man grunts back as he dodges a stinger, gritting his teeth as the new villain, The Bee-Seecher™, cackles manically at the background, spouting another generic D-rated-villain speech. Her outfit is pretty neat - sewing your own suit makes one appreciate high-quality stitchwork. If not for her murderous tendencies, she would actually kind of be his type –

 

"Bee-loved~! Check this out!" Deadpool sing-songs from somewhere above him, and Peter can't help but glance up quickly to watch as the man rides a foam-spittling-monstrousity like it's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

"That's the best thing that's ever happened to me!" Deadpool announces, hands clenched around the rabid-bee's antennas. "BuzzFeed is gonna love this! We're going viral, Optimus!"

 

"I'm never going to make it to dinner." Peter mutters sullenly after punching three bees to the ground. "No one ever makes a debut like that on New Year's." He's going to owe his aunt a long, heartfelt explanation for this. He regards the hive that covers up the sky, spots clearing up minutely as Deadpool stirs the giant bee he's riding on (-  _Peter can't believe this is his life_ -) into the swarm.

The situation is worse than he thought. Drastic measures will have to be taken.

Shuddering, Peter realises he'll have to succumb to one of Mrs. Rosenbaum infamous schideches for ditching at the last minute.

 

It takes a long, tedious battle, filled with adrenaline, webbing and the annoying buzzing of ginormous insectoids and Deadpool's mouth.

It ends with a well-aimed throw of an apple that hits The Bee-Seecher™ right in the head. It smashes against her crown, which breaks and electrifies the woman in the process, rendering her unconscious and frizzling up her hair. Spider-Man approaches after he confirms all the bees are down for the count, and starts cocooning her to make sure she'll stay put (albeit a tad tighter than strictly necessary.)

"May you _be_  the head and not the tail." He greets her when he's done, rubbing a stiff shoulder.

"It's funny," Deadpool chuckles to his right, rubbing the discarded apple against his gore-covered suit, "because you said bee."

Peter groans.

Deadpool bites into the apple.

"Want some?" He offers Peter the fruit. "Tradition and all, ain't it? Some juicy, steamy -"

"One more word, Deadpool, and I swear –"

"You don't swear, you're rated PG-13 –"

"One. More. Word."

"Honey –"

 

*

 

The breeze is cool and the sky is clear, stars shining brightly. Deadpool has been hanging from this street lamp for the past four hours. All in all, he thinks their date went quite well.

 **It was fun, but that woman was sort of a buzzkill** , the Yellow Box contemplates aloud. **What if she'll come back at Halloween?**

"Don't be silly," Deadpool waves it off. "No one in their right mind would make their debut during a _real_ holiday."

 ** _This is why no one likes us,_** the White Box moans.

"No, just Spidey."

 

With the increased blood flow to his brain, a sudden epiphany occurs. The perks of being an upside-down-hanging-wallflower.

 

"I've got an idea!"

**_That sounds ominous._ **

**Do tell.**

"One word, guys."

**_True love?_ **

**Restraining order?**

"Better. Though it may involve both, at some point."

**_All-you-can-eat-Taco-Tuesday-galore?_ **

**Poetry?**

"Nice, but nope."

**_What's your bright idea, then?_ **

**What's going to make Spidey like us?**

"Camaraderie. Or as Peter's people like to spell it – circumcision!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧ Happy Rosh Hashanah~! ✧
> 
> If you're celebrating, consider using date honey, instead of honey made by bees. [More as to why. ](https://www.ou.org/torah/machshava/tzarich-iyun/tzarich_iyun_milk_and_honey/)
> 
> If you're not celebrating, Jewish New Year's is next Monday! Surprise your Jewish friends and their moms with your sudden Jewish savviness (endorsed by your gay fandom). 
> 
> [Schidech is Yiddish for matching people up; if you get three couples to marry, you're going to heaven!]


	6. Fool Me Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shame and blame to go around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #6: T, no warnings.  
> Featuring: Jewish Peter. SURPRISE!  
> Sequel to "Semantics".

“No.”

“But – “

“No, Deadpool. I appreciate the gesture, but I am not opening this box. I think it’d be better for both of us, this way.”

Deadpool pouts through his mask, making Peter’s eyebrow twitch. The man is so immature, lacking any traits marking him as an adult, other than his imposing physique (not that Peter’s been checking him out or anything ridiculous as that, those are just facts. Facts are information, and information is crucial to survival, a flimsy concept for a New-York superhero with no particular specialized Government Agency covering his back). As it is, Deadpool probably would’ve been long dead without his healing factor keeping him up and about.

“Spidey,” the man whines– whines! Peter can’t actually believe this, when did _he_ last had a chance to whine at someone– “gesture? You wound me! I’ve already wrapped it up and everything, do you know how hard it was, getting this particular Spidey-wrapping-paper? An old man almost poked my eyes out for it with his umbrella! I didn't poke his back, 'case you're wondering, even though it would've been legit, 'an eye for an eye' and all, but my eyes, Spidey! Just think I could've lost one of those precious baby-blues... or is it wooden-hues? It really depends on who’s writing this thing, it can go anywhere between Ruby-banging-Sapphire to Spongebob-Pantless-Yellow, I’d say–“

Peter tunes him out and looks at the box in his hands, trying to ignore the unpleasant sense of déjà vu washing over him. The wrapping-paper is kind of cool, he admits; even now, he can’t help but feel a small thrill seeing people he knows wearing a shirt with his face (well, masked-face) or school children carrying Spider-Man lunchboxes or action figures of him in a 7/11, next to the mints at the cashier’s. Getting a present with small Spider-Men leaping about is odd, but somehow also feels like he's being paid back by some unseen force (probably The Invisible Hand that's profiting from his inability to trademark himself.)

They’ve come a long way this past year; Deadpool does have good intentions, Peter grudgingly admits to himself, but he can find infinite ways to wrongly deliver them. Much like a child unleashed upon a candy store with the promise they can pick whatever they like and a bottomless cart at their disposal, Deadpool was unleashed upon the world under no restraint or guidance, with a load of ammunition and _extremely_ grabby hands.

At some inexplicable, horrible point in his life, it had somehow became Peter’s job to tell Deadpool that _No_ , he can’t eat only candies for the rest of his life – his teeth would rot – and _No_ , he can’t drop this thug off the nine-storeys-high building, so he’d have to put him back.

And now it’s Purim again, and Deadpool is pouting at him as he babbles, like it’s Peter’s fault for not trusting the box he was handed.

 

“– so I can’t get a refund, and I have no use for it, that’s why I got it for _you_.” Deadpool finishes the rant, then hastily adds: “It’s nothing creepy this time. Promise.”

He sounds so earnest, and his mask reflects the same.

Peter fights the urge to ask for more assurance from Deadpool’s side; someone has got to be the responsible adult around here.

(Unfortunately, it's him.)

 

“Fine,” he says, maintaining eye-contact. “This better be candy.”

Deadpool claps his hands excitedly and bounds in front of him as he carefully untucks the sellotape and pulls out a Spider-Man themed card-box.

“Even better! You’re gonna love it, I just know it, Spidey, it's gonna go so well with your outfit, this is gonna be the best–“

 

Peter allows a small smile before turning to open the lid.

He does not shriek like a little girl.

Peter shrieks like a grown man who just had thousands of spiders swarming towards - then spilling- all over him, then scattering anywhere the wind takes them (which is mostly onto Peter's boots) when he dropped the box onto the floor.

“I knew they'd like you, Spidey– look at them, sitting their little spidey-tushes on the webbing like they were meant to- hey, Spidey, careful with that!” Deadpool sulks at him from what appears to be a safe distance. “They're fragile little flowers! Not everyone are big tough spider-guys, show some camaraderie to your brethren, here!”

It goes unnoticed, as Peter’s too busy bouncing around the roof’s floor in panic, hands flying everywhere to try and get the spiders off of him.

“Oh god,” he squeaks through what feels like certain doom, “they’re in my paNTS–“

“I’d help you!”

 

Much, much later, when Peter has but a lone spider to his name, but none to his body, he thinks.

Rather, he ponders through a head-splitting migraine; when he’d have to face God in heaven in what he hopes to be not-the-next-ten-days, and when he'd be asked: “ _Why did you kick an innocent man off a roof? During Purim, no less!_ ” he thinks he'd have pretty solid defense.

 

... But just to make sure, he picks up the phone and calls Matt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Purim Everyone!  
> *  
> Trivia info: during Purim, there's a custom of exchanging "mishloach manot", basically lots of candies wrapped-up nicely. This is why Deadpool keeps trying to give Peter things in Purim. Maybe next year he'd try to get him drunk; it's a mitzvah!  
> (disclaimer: only during Purim.)  
> For anyone's wondering why Peter's spider-sense didn't go off, none of the spiders posed any threat to him. Wade wouldn't give him poisonous spiders, silly-heads!


	7. Ain't Catching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Obligatory Pokemon AU.  
> (Can't believe it took me this long!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: G (the struggle was real)  
> Featuring: My many regrets in the form of lame pop-culture jokes. Peter and Wade are both adults.

“Boxes!”

Peter startled awake from where he was napping against a tree, his book tumbling off onto the ground.

“Bill…?” he mumbled, still not quite awake.

 

“Boxes!” The voice demanded again, sounding annoyed. “Boxes! You better get here soon you overgrown throw-pillow, I’m not allowed to curse in a G-rated environment!”

Hastily getting to his feet, Peter dusted off his pants and adjusted his glasses, squinting at the voice direction, as it was clearly heading his way, trampling every plant back into the ground with a heavy gait.

“Boxes!” The voice snarled, “I swear to Arceus, if you’re not behind this tree– oh, hello!”

The man who came into the clearing was tall and wore lots of red, his face mostly covered with a hood and a pair of white-tinted sunglasses; Peter right hand immediately went to his belt, brushing against the third ball.

“Hey,” he said cautiously. “I–“

“Yeah yeah, lovely day, you never manage to get your shopping done on Tuesdays, I'm not wearing shorts– sharp observation skills, young man– and I’m sure your Rattata is the top-percentage of all Rattatas, and now it shall be ta-ta ‘cause I can’t battle right now–“

“Huh?” Peter asked, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“– I’m looking for Boxes–“

“I don’t have any.”

“No,” the man waved a hand at him distractedly, “Boxes, my– holy guacamole, _is that a shiny_?!”

Peter looked up at the brightly-coloured pokemon hovering above his head, his red and blue colouring standing out against the surrounding foliage of the forest.

“Yeah, that’s Spider.”

“Spini!” The spinarak chirped, the dark pattern on his back shifting to mimic a smile. Peter loved that trait, as judging the expressions of most bug-pokemon was quite challenging.  

“Pfft, what kind of lame name is that. Sounds like you just smashed some buttons around at random.”

Peter frowned, the lines on Spider’s back readjusting to match his expression.

“Good thing he's my pokemon, then, and none of your business.”

The man snorted, but looked amused, stepping closer to inspect Spider up close and taking off his sunglasses. Peter flinched slightly when he got a proper look at the face under the hood, riddled with scars, but thankfully managed to hide it as Spider came to settle on his shoulder.

(Or so he thought.)

 

“Wanna know how I got these scars?” the man grinned.

“Um, no, not really–“

“Pokerus. Turns out steroids are always bad for you, you should remember that, kid–“

“Spi,” Spider chirped worriedly in Peter’s ear.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “He’s kinda weird.”

“Who’re you calling kinda!” The man frowned again, and Peter has had quite enough.

“I’m going,” he said plainly. “Bye.”

“Wait! Don't smell me later!” The man called, grasping his wrist. “Help me, shiny-Spider-man, you’re my only hope!”

“I doubt that.” Peter raised a brow skeptically, and turned to look down at where the man grabbed him.

The man shrugged, letting him go as he brought his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Got something better to do?”

“Not really." Peter admitted. He might as well ask. "Is it about the boxes?”

“Not ‘the boxes’. Just Boxes.”

“Just boxes then.” Peter looked at him expectedly.

“He’s about this tall–“ the man raised his hand high above his head.

“Who is?”

“Boxes.”

“Huh?”

“Boxes.” The man repeated. “He’s my dodrio. He used to be my _duderio_ , before he ran away and never came back–“

Peter felt a pang in his heart. Losing his pokemon– what a terrible thing! Maybe he misjudged this odd man– maybe despair had driven him over the edge–

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “When did it happen?”

“About two, maybe three hours ago.” The man replied flippantly, “and he’s a fast one, that good-for-nothing berry-muncher– anyway, as I was saying, about this tall, half-white, half-yellow–“

“He’s a shiny, too?” Peter’s interest piqued. Although he had Spider, meeting a shiny always had his heart skip a beat. He hadn’t met too many of them, but those he was fortunate enough to encounter were so unique, each in their own special way–

 

“Nah, I just painted him.”

“Painted him?” Peter repeated in disbelief.

The man nodded. “There’s a beauty contest later on, but the little sh– I mean, the little ray-of-sunshine,” he coughed, “dashed off the moment I turned my back to him. I’ve been looking for him ever since.”

“Have you tried using berries?” Peter offered, setting aside a future speech about ethical treatment towards pokemon the other trainer clearly needed to hear. “What nature does he have? You know, pokemon with different natures are attracted to different berries. If you use–“

“Save me that new generation cr–“ he cleared his throat rather suddenly, “–credible piece of advice, if you will. He’s a dodrio. He doesn’t have just one nature. He has a complex, layered personality.”

“You’re making it rather hard to help you,” Peter frowned again.

“It ain’t the only thing that can get hard.” The man jerked his hand in a quick movement, a pokeball materializing in his hand. “Check this out!”

The light took a familiar shape.

“Spi!” the spinarak noted in delight, climbing down to greet a potential new friend.

“That’s Bob,” the man said. “One day he’ll grow up to be a beautiful butterfree.”

“Metapod,” the metapod whined weakly from the ground.

It was the most lackluster metapod Peter had ever encountered. He seemed less like a metapod and more like a caterpie that regretted every choice he ever made in his short life.

“Bob! Use harden!”

“Meta,” it groaned.

 

Nothing happened.

 

*

For an unfathomable reason, Peter joined the man – who introduced himself as Wade – and helped him in what Wade dubbed a courageous rescue expedition (and Peter called ‘a greater waste of time than trying to teach a diglet how to swim’).

 

“You’re not a criminal, are you?” He asked around the fourth hour into their search.

“Only crime I’ve ever committed is being _this_ handsome.” He stopped to gesture at his person, striking several poses, acting ridiculously similar to a freshly-evolved machamp.

“It ain’t catching, to be this dashing! So fetching, and yourself, you're quite smashing–”

Peter sighed; couple of hours ago, those comments were irritating, but now they were somewhat amusing. They probably weren’t that amusing, he thought, but he had only Spider to converse with for the past week, so any sentence that didn’t start with “spi” and ended with “na" or "rak” was an improvement to his unstimulated mind.

 

“You wear lots of red.” He tried to make Wade see why he brought his potential-criminal-tendencies up, but his brain wasn’t being cooperative.

Wade nodded. “I bet you’re wondering, why the red suit?”

“I wouldn’t call it a suit–“

“That’s so bad–“

“It is. Looks like you picked it from Team Magma–“

“How dare you, I’m Team IronCap ‘till the end of the line–“

 

A horrendous sound cut their banter short.

It sounded like a fearow and a pidgeot were slaying each other while simultaneously being processed through a meat-grinder, with a pack of meowthes sharpening their claws on a chalkboard in the background.

 

“Boxes!” Wade cried out in joy.

“I think my ears might be bleeding,” Peter whispered (or maybe shouted; he couldn’t be sure his hearing wasn’t irrevocably damaged). “I… I think I’ve been paralyzed.”

“Boxes, my precious baby, daddy’s coming for you!”

 

The cries of the damned echoed through the woods.

 

*

Boxes turned out to be an impressively friendly fellow, despite the surly air around it. He didn’t peck at Spider, which Peter appreciated, and two of his heads took it on themselves to groom Peter’s hair into shape, while the third enjoyed the attentions Wade lavished at him.

 

Wade’s backpack contained a surprisingly large amount of different foods, and after he had his fill of cooing, he took it on himself to fix them dinner.

“What about the contest?” Peter asked half-heartedly; he was hungry, but his nagging conscious couldn’t let Wade skip the event, which probably slipped from his mind–

“What about it?” Wade asked distractedly as he chopped up an unidentified root. He slid it from the cutting board directly into the bubbling pot, stirring the broth in unhurried circular motions.

 

Peter shrugged, scratching his cheek, conscious satisfied. He turned to look over his shoulder; Spider was making himself comfortable, turning a few times before settling within the soft plumage of Boxes’ flank, with only his horn peeking out; he didn’t quite take to Bob.  
One of Boxes’ heads was still nipping at Peter’s hair.

 

“Anyway, after dinner, I thought I’d let you catch a ride with me back to the nearest Pokemon center. Bob worked very hard today,” he patted the metapod who was eyeing the knife in Wade’s hand with apprehension, “I’d feel better knowing he’s in good, capable hands.”

“I hate to break it to you, but the nearest center is on the other side of this mountain.”

“So?”

“How do you think we’d get there?”

“We fly, of course.”

“Fly?” Peter had a faint suspicion he knew where Wade was headed with this.

“Indeed.”

“And I suppose Boxes would be the one doing the flying?”

“Unless Bob decides to open-up soon–“ Wade nudged the metapod lightly with his boot. Bob made a defeated, sad sound.

“Wade,” Peter rubbed his temple, wondering how an adult man failed to notice something so simple. “Boxes can’t fly. He doesn’t have any wings.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of Pokemon.” Wade poured him from whatever he was making and handed him the dish, grinning when Peter’s hunger made him forgo the offered spoon and just slurp it directly from the bowl.

“Now, Peter. I have an important question to ask. It's crucial you'd answer it truthfully."

"Mmmph?" Peter inquired, the delicious broth in his mouth making it difficult to concentrate.

"Are you a boy or a girl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE POSTING I WANTED TO CHECK WHAT THE REAL COLOURS OF A SHINY SPINARAK WERE TO MENTION THOSE IN THE END NOTES, BUT APPARENTLY, SHINY SPINARAKS *ARE* RED AND BLUE. OMG HOW COOL.  
> (Dodrio can use fly, by the way.)
> 
> Comment and help me find strength to finish that SnK fic I've been struggling with those past two weeks. I want to post it today, really.


End file.
